A Heated Debate Between Two Charismatic Geniuses: A Cardinal Fan (Jeff Lung) and a Tiger Fan (Allen Krause)

Results tagged ‘ Hyperbole ’

Usain Bolt is looking to try out with a British soccer team. What athlete that you’ve seen in the Olympics would you most like to see trying out for an American baseball team?

Ethan Santa Clara, CA_________________________

Olympians turned baseballers? I like the way you think, Ethan. And I welcome the possibilities!

I can’t help but think Michael Phelps would look good in Yankee pinstripes. The man has 20 Olympic medals — hardware that would surely look good next to 27 World Series trophies. And let’s face it, the dude has earned the right to be as cocky and off-putting as he is. He might not have Derek Jeter’s golden little black book yet, but some time around the Captain and soon he too could be kissing mirrors of himself.

When it comes to actual physical strength though I might suggest Holley Mangold take up a spot in the American League as a DH. She wouldn’t have to actually do much running or having anyrefined skills other than swinging for the fences; and accounting for her already buoyant build, I don’t think we would have to worry about any Giambian steroid scandals.

Of course, no baseball league is complete without its lovable losers. And considering how much crying Jordyn Wieber did in the 30th Olympiad, I think she’d be a perfect fit for the Chicago Cubs.

But let’s not forget, when it comes to an Olympian I want on my baseball team, there is no one other than THE Usain Bolt.

Holy jerk chicken, that guy is a bonafide SUPERSTAR!!!

Have you EVER seen anything more exciting the last 4 years than watching that man run!?!?! Unbelievable! I’d want him in center field, catching everything in between the foul poles. At the plate, I’d have him try to walk as much as possible, just to mess with the opposing pitchers’ mind before taking off to fly around the bases. And look out if he actually hits a ball out of the infield, ‘cuz dude is gonna turn singles into doubles and doubles into inside-the-parkers!

Not only that, but Bolt is also insanely entertaining in the most endearing of ways — a happy-go-lucky clowner who can back it up with performance as opposed to the psychotic shenanigans of a WAY less talented Tony Plush.

Forget soccer, Mr. Bolt, please come wear the birds on the bat.

And don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

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Although I probably should be watching baseball, I find myself oddly enthralled by the Olympics. Ichiro’s chops as a Yankee? Nah, I think I’ll watch some women’s badminton instead. Fister putting a brief stop to the Tiger’s road woes? Hm, I guess I’m going to go for some ping-pong (table tennis, if you want to be stuffy about it). Rivalry weekend in America? Nope, women’s skeet shooting.

I’m not saying I’d want to watch these games all the time. I love women’s gymnastics as much as the next guy but I can only take so much of it. But at the same time, there’s something special about the Olympics. For instance, yesterday I was watching a British dude named Paul Drinkhall advance to the third round in men’s table tennis.

First of all, his name is “Drinkhall.” How awesome is that? That’s like a German guy named “Biergarten.” Or an American named “Applebees.” Second, this dude has little or no muscle tone, pasty white skin, horrible shorts and an equally terrible haircut but he’s an Olympic athlete. That, my friends, is badass. Badass in the same way as David Wells and his Churchillian physique somehow destroying opposing batters.

I freely admit that a lot of it is the novelty. It’s hard for the 162-game slog of baseball to compete with the instant gratification of a Moroccan/Uzbek flyweight boxing match. And once the new “Dream Team” really get’s going, baseball is going to find it tough going. I guess it’s kind of like the guy who has always sworn that he’d never leave his frumpy but faithful wife but somehow finds himself behind the wheel of a convertible with his 24-year old secretary. Sure, it’s cheating but really, what were you supposed to do? Odds like those don’t come up everyday.

So, I’d like to say that this was just a weekend thing and tomorrow I’ll be back to MLB. But we all know I’m lying. Can you blame me though? I mean, seriously, synchronized diving!!!

In this case, we (Davey and I) are talkin’ about my surly and oft dour colleague, Mr. Allen Krause. Surely these words sting, almost as much as watching Mr. Krause’s beloved Tigers defeat my WORLD CHAMPION ST. LOUIS CARDINALS in their recent 3-game series.

Matt Cain this week threw what some people are saying was the best “perfect game” ever. Is it really possible to say that one perfect game is better than another and, if so, which one would you vote for?

Sal

Fresno, CA___________________________________

Absolutism is relative. I think. No, I am sure it is. Maybe. I mean, this is the GREATEST BASEBALL-POLITICO BLOG OF ALL TIME, IS IT NOT!?!?!

I think so, but such a statement comes with the caveat that one would have a hard time quantifying it. Why is it the best? Because of Mr. Krause? Because of Mr. Lung? Because of the interns?

That’s just the very beginning of a long list of things that makes RSBS the G.O.A.T.

But can we quantify what exactly makes one perfecto better than another? Not really. But it’s fun trying. For example, Matt Cain’s 14 strikeouts tied the MLB record for strikeouts in a perfect game (Sandy Koufax, 1965), which clearly demonstrates superior command and dominance over the opposition. Cain also threw 19 first pitch strikes and never got himself in a 2-0 count. Meanwhile, his defense did some dazzling. Both the 6th and 7th innings featured unbelievable catches in the outfield that, had they not been made, would have sunk the perfect game effort. The last out, a hard ground ball to third base that put Joaquin Arias in a stutter step also provided one final gasping twist to the accomplishment. All of the above, plus Cain’s eery zen mound presence throughout it all, provide plenty of quantification for it being the “best” perfect game ever.

Still, it’s relative. And maybe we see it as the “best” right now because it’s fresh in our minds.

I recall Randy Johnson’s 2004 effort against the Braves as being one of the most dominate games I’ve ever seen too. The Big Unit struck out 13 in that game and was throwin’ nasty stuff all the while. David Cone didn’t see a 2-0 count in his 1999 perfecto against the late Expos, a game where he also had to sit out for a 33-minute rain delay, on Yogi Berra Day, with Don Larsen in the stands!

But, for me, the best perfect game I’ve ever seen came on a lazy Thursday afternoon in July 2009, when Mark Buehrle pitched himself into the record books, again. What made that game so special, for me, was that I was watching it at work and by the 8th inning, I was watching it with the UPS man, the FedEx man and yes, even the mail man. When Dewayne Wise made “the catch” we reveled in our mutual south sidedness and gave each other big, sweaty man-hugs.

That’s the sorta thing that only happens once in a lifetime, so I’ll be hanging my hat on the Buehrle perfecto for the forseeable future. But that’s just me.

You can hate me for that. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

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Bizarro baseball. You know what it looks like. No, not that bizarro baseball. Nor this one, though I do like the idea of a batless batsman. The bizarro baseball I’m talkin’ about is the kind I was forced to watch Tuesday through Thursday of this week.

My DirectTV Extra Innings and MLB.TV packages both blackout my home team St. Louis Cardinals’ television broadcast streams when they are playing in my home market (I happen to live on the south side of Chicago). And while I have become quite used to watching the Cubs’ broadcasts whenever they play the Cardinals, for the first time since I moved to the Chi, I had to endure the cliched, logorrheic tomfoolery of one Hawk Harrelson whilst watching my favorite ballclub play.

Of course, as a longtime neighborhood White Sox supporter, I have withstood many a Hawk-infested baseball game; so this was nothing new to me. But in the past I’ve always been able to leave the game knowing “whew, at least that guy isn’t callin’ my teams’ games!”

Plus, his shenanigans don’t seem quite as cute when YOUR team is the “bad guys”.

With summer temperatures slowly creeping up on us, the potential for flop-sweat induced wedgies at the ballpark is on the rise, making an afternoon or midmorning rain shower a pleasant respite for anyone wanting to spend some serious time unstuck at the game. Though it is not widely known, making it rain isn’t quite as difficult as one might think. Here are three simple methods:

1. Be Different

As my doleful and oft unctuous colleague, Mr. Krause, taught us, sometimes, making it rain is just a matter of doing the opposite of what’s expected of you.

Change and I don’t get along too well. I remember when the Cardinals introduced the Sunday home game alternate cap — the navy blue one with the red bill and the profiled bird. I couldn’t sleep for weeks.

WHY?!?! WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS!?!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE REGULAR CAP!?!?!

Things are better now; but living in Chicago, I became quite used to the kind of daily drama inherent in a city where Ozzie Guillen is employed. Now, with him gone, life is just… boring? I mean, Adam Dunn is hitting. Jake Peavy is pitching. The Cell hasn’t caught on fire.

What fun is that?

I miss the good old days — the days when the city stopped for the Crosstown Rivalry, the Windy City Classic. I miss seeing Sweet Lou bump bellies with umpires, AJ Pierzynski gettin’ cold cocked by Michael Barrett, listening to drunk frat boys explain the infield fly rule to washed out bimbos while double-fisting $7 Old Styles.

Is nothing sacred anymore?!?!

Until I see Dale Sveum and Robin Ventura do a rap song about bad contracts, I’m gonna have to think not.

The Twittersphere is a strange place. It can be as welcoming as it is alienating, as terrifying as it is hilarious. But just like anything else on the interwebs, it is what you make of it.

Over the years, I have fawned over several accounts in order to make SUPER-HAPPY-FUN TIME. Coco Crisp’s was golden. Barry Zito’s was embarrassing (before he blocked me from talking to him). And I’ve probably cried more laughing at the hilarity of Fake Ned Yost than I have all the times I’ve watched Braveheart combined (stop judging me).

But these days there’s a new mang in town (somewhere along I-5 between Los Anaheim and Orange Angeles County).

This question makes the very broad assumption that I feel anything. I don’t. If I did I would already be cowering in shame because the Cardinals just dropped a series to the LOLstros.

But this is baseball. It defies feeling. It defies logic.

The Red Sox and Phillies in last place? The Dodgers and Nats routing? Peavy in control, flashing signs of the old whip-and-kill-em arm action?

Why not? It’s only May. Anything could happen.

Maybe I was a bit harsh on Peavy. Can you blame me? As far as baseballers go, Jake is pretty annoying. And up until this season, all he had really done in a White Sox jersey is yap yap yap with a string of poor performances following those empty words.

I want my pitchers to pitch. Not yap. PITCH.

Jake is finally doing that. Maybe his detached latissimus dorsi is properly attached again. His velocity is back. He’s hitting his spots. Why should a man being paid like a superstar get extra accolades for FINALLY fulfilling his end of the bargain by pitching like a superstar? Isn’t it too late!?!?!?

For my White Sox fan brethren, I am very relieved. Yes, it is early yet, but to see Peavy, Dunn, Rios and *GULP* Gordon Beckham actually perform well makes life on the south side much easier. But again, it is May. There’s plenty of baseball left.

So I won’t douse that crow with Sriracha until I know I absolutely have to eat it.

Hate me. It’s cool. Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeff

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